


Panic

by nightram



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Comfort, Developing Relationship, F/M, Gen, Sharing a Bed, Showing up on a doorstep in the middle of the night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 05:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2376869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightram/pseuds/nightram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders hear Templars lurking nearby in the middle of the night and is woken in fear. He makes his way to the estate of Hawke, the woman he trusts dearly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Panic

“ _Messere_! _Messere_ , are you awake?”

Hawke stirs in her bed. Loud thumping on her bedroom door slowly pulls her from a deep slumber. She rolls onto her back, draping the anterior of her elbow over her eyes. What time was it?

“ _Messere_!”

The panicked calling from Bodahn and persistent rapping at her door urges Hawke to let out a guttural growl in an attempt to placate the unrelenting racket. This does not achieve anything. Clutching at her head, she opens her eyes and notes that the sun has not yet risen and the fire in her hearth has died down to embers. With a croaky voice, she calls out to Bodahn and pulls herself into a sitting position; her chin lulling to her chest.

The woman reaches for the shawl draped across the end of her bed and pulls it over her shoulders. Her mabari pricks his ears and raises his brows in curiosity, however keeps his eyes closed in an attempt to continue resting. Hawke runs a finger down the centre of his snout to his nose before pulling the shawl further around her and rising from the canopy bed.

Hawke slips on her boots once she crosses the polished wooden floor and opens her bedroom door with a yawn.

“Bodahn, what’s wrong?” she inquires, her voice deep with exhaustion. “Do I need to retrieve my gear?”

“I am so sorry to wake you Messere- oh, no, no you won’t need that. It’s your friend, Anders,” the stout dwarf explains. Bodahn Feddic, her self-imposed housekeeper, is still in his bedclothes with a coat wrapped about him. However his beard is immaculate; something that will forever fascinate Hawke.

Hawke whistles for her mabari who lifts his head in response. “Do you know what’s happened?” she asks, now more awake; her voice tainted with evident concern. 

“Nay. He has barely spoken a word,” Bodahn shrugs in defeat, “I came and fetched you at my own discretion, _Messere_. I assumed he was here to see you. You are both quite close after all.”

Hawke opens her carved Hickory door further allowing the hound to scuttle out. “I’ll see to him.” With a tired smile she slicks back her unkempt hair. “Thank you for getting me, Bodahn. Go back to sleep, I’ll snuff out the torches on my way back to bed.”

“Please find me if you need me. You’ll know where I’ll be,” the portly man submits with a fatherly pat on her arm. “ _Messere_ , he seems very anxious. Do be careful. I’ve seen how mages fair when they’re already uneasy, let alone startled.”

Dismissing himself, Bodahn turns and lumbers down the flight of stairs out of sight. Hawke ducks into her quarters to retrieve a candle from her top drawer. Setting it into the candelabrum on her dresser, she kneels by the hearth and holds its whick to the fading embers. Once lit, she stands back up and throws some kindling to feed the coals before leaving and making her way down the staircase.

The main foyer is lit by the torch beside the library and the freshly stoked fireplace by the entry doorway, but is still relatively dull. The crackling embers echo about the room, complimented by the chilling draught coursing through from the hall. Hawke’s boots scuff against the shined floor, making her way to the threshold. 

Standing by the dark frame, she peers into the entry foyer. There, standing with his back to her is the familiar apostate cast in shadow. His hair is disheveled, and he clutches his hewn stave with white knuckles. Her hound is sitting beside him. She stills and watches his brittle form for a moment.

“Come in, Anders,” the surly woman speaks softly, “it’s too cold to be standing out here.” 

She watches him lift his head slightly and clutch his staff, turning to follow Hawke as she leaves for her library.

Hawke carries the candlestick in one hand and pulls the torch from the wall fixture as she enters the study and throws it into the rooms smouldering fireplace. There is the clacking of claws on hard wood and the shuffling of weary boots. She turns to the doorway to see the mabari scamper off to the kitchen, quick to focus on the exhausted mage making his way to join her in the study.

Anders haphazardly props his stave into the corner where two large shelves converge and sinks into the lounge in front of the hearth. He grunts on his descent, placing his elbow on the armrest and holds his head in his hands. He slumps in the seat, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm himself. His feathered pauldrons and robe are tousled, his belt poorly pulled about him and his shirt mostly unbuttoned. Hawke concludes that he must’ve been woken in a hurry in the small hours of this morning before arriving here.

She watches him carefully, observing him. Something terrible has happened to him, she knows this much. Something to drive him from the relative safety of the hidden away clinic. The coterie maybe? Or maybe worse, Templars on the scent of an apostate.

“Do you want to tell me what’s happened, Anders?” Hawke queries with sincere concern painting her words, “You look like you’ve had a rough time.” She carefully steps closer, hands tucked up into her underarms for warmth. He sighs, long and ragged.

“I was asleep when one of the wards I had lain outside the clinic was purged,” the mage whispers to the ground, “Justice woke immediately. I barely made it out the back window before they began sniffing around any buildings in the vicinity.” Only those trained in the dispersion of magic could disarm a ward. No mage living free would have qualms with anothers’ perimetre ward. Templars it was then.

“You’re safe now,” Hawke assures, taking a seat beside her panicked friend once placing the candle on her desk. The two sit in silence with only the wind and spitting fire to fill the void of conversation.

After some time, Anders exhales a breath he didn’t realise he was holding and fights back the fatigued tears of stress and anxiety that have surfaced from quietly stewing on his fears. Hawke kindly places a reassuring hand on his back, slipping it up under his heavy pauldrons to trail slow comforting circles across the hunch of his shoulders.

At first it is a shudder running up his spine. Pressing it back, his jaw clenches and he digs his short nails into his scalp, seized by dread. Anders’ eyes sting with trepidation as the woman beside him pulls his lithe figure into an embrace. He buries his face into the nape of Hawke’s neck and grips the sleeve of her shawl with one hand, the other to her side. She holds him there as he fights back the grief forcing it’s way out. 

They could’ve found him. He couldn’t bear being captured. Again. Not again. Last time was hard enough. The year in solitary- no, that left him barely held together. The Joining shattered nearly all that was left. He couldn’t do it, not ever again. Even with Justice. And after what happened to Karl? He doesn’t doubt Tranquility as his punishment. Executing the Abomination that was him would be too kind.

Hawke does not speak a word. She rests her head against his and patiently presses her eyes closed. She wants to say something, but there is nothing she can think of that could help. She fears any kind words would seem condescending from her tongue. Opting instead to let his muffled sobs worry against her neck until he is spent.

It is a relief to her burdened heart when the man in her arms begins to calm. It is slow, but eventually his breaths come more easily to his swollen throat. For all his strength, nothing could overcome the tortures Anders has faced in the tempestuous tale that is his life. 

“You may stay the night if that’d help you out,” Hawke suggests with uncertainty once she feels Anders begin to pull away; nervous she may be overstepping a boundary. “I can’t provide you with a guest room however. But you are welcome to share mine.”

She feels him seize up. “... I, I’m not sure if that would be wise…” he mutters. Justice does not approve. With eyes boring into his lap, he slips his hands from their vice held on her. “And… regardless, I wouldn’t want to intrude, Hawke. I- I have bothered you enough for one night.”

“Please,” comes the raspy gasp from her lips. “There’s no way you’ll be able to rest comfortably back there tonight, especially if they’re still lurking around,” Hawke insists with a whisper, grasping his wrist with care, “I want you to be safe. I promise you will not be a burden; you will be my guest.”

Anders watches her as she awaits his reply. 

There are dark wells under her eyes and her hair is mussed; brows knitted together in deep concern. For all the defiant words Justice provides, Anders finds himself unable to argue with Hawke’s kind touch nor thoughtful voice. He hesitates, holding his tongue and placing his hand on hers. 

“Fine.”

Anders can’t stop the warmth he feels in his chest when Hawke smiles at him with creased eyes.

Hawke releases her hold and sits back from him. “You are welcome to draw yourself a bath if you’d like. There should be some hot water in the crockpot over the fire here,” she muses, “and there’d be a change of clothes you could borrow in the linen press.”

He deliberates momentarily, aware of the headache nagging at his peripheral. The spirit of Justice outright refused to accept it’s hosts decision. But Anders was too shaken from his scare to contemplate making a return trip in the dead of night to his clinic which he feared would no longer safely hide him away from prying eyes. A night alone was too dangerous for him right now.

And, honestly, how could he turn away a night with the woman he could not admit he desired out loud?

Justice burned in fury at the temptation.

Hawke rose from the regally upholstered seat and busied herself with retrieving the candlestick from her desk and extinguishing the fire in the hearth. She unhinges the black cast iron pot from its hook in front of the chimney’s hollow and carries it with ease out of the room with her small light held up. “Come. Bring your staff with you.”

Anders forces himself to his feet and drags himself to retrieve the enchanted carved wood from the corner of the room. With heavy steps he follows Hawke into the main foyer. He admires her strength to easily carry such a heavy object so easily up the tall flight of stairs with only one hand as she leads him to the washroom. The homestead is now mostly blackened by the night with the fires now faded into coals; he is sure to stay close and watch his step.

With a muffled thud, Anders’ staff strikes the carpeted floor of the top step once the pair reach the top of the flight. Hawke hangs a sharp turn and lights the way to a room near hers. Setting the pot down she uses her now freed hand to turn the brass handle. She nudges the door open with a stuttered whine of the hinges, picks the crock back up and shuffles her way in. 

A clawed tub is mostly obscured by a screen; a shining mirror above the basin to the right of the doorway. Hawke bodily dumps the contents of the pitcher into the bath and sits it on a large slate coaster atop the bench hosting the deep basin. Holding the burning wick to the candelabra, the room is slowly enveloped in a warm glow. Momentarily crouching down, she pulls some jars from the cupboard under her sink and places them on the benchtop before walking to the press beside the vermilion screen. Hawke turns to Anders with a handful of folded clothes once belonging to her brother and a welcoming expression.

“Here, these should fit,” she places linen beside the sink, “there are clean towels tossed over the screen. And those are some soaps and scrubs you’re free to use. Just place your clothes in the basket by the door and Bodahn will clean them when he wakes at dawn.”

“I appreciate your hospitality, Hawke,” Anders says with unabashed sincerity.

“Here, I’ll place this in my room,” Hawke says as she takes the mage’s staff from his tight hold. Using it to point the direction, she looks up to the thin man, “my room’s just here. I’ll just be reading by the fire. Come find me when you’re done.”

“Thank you,” he mumbles with a hint of embarrassment.

Once his host leaves the room, Anders slides the bathroom door shut as silently as he can; not desiring to wake the other persons living in the Hawke estate. 

He felt like he was committing a heinous act being under Hawke’s roof after showing up at her door in a panic during the small hours. Anders did not trust anyone else with his fragility. He didn’t realise where he was going in his dazed state until he found himself knocking on the hewn door of the Hightown homestead. 

He tried to ignore the ill feeling in his stomach when he realised the day would surely come and he would likely need to face not just Bodahn who he must’ve scared half to death, but likely the questioning expression of Hawke’s mother, Leandra.

Anders removed his articles and placed them in the hamper as Hawke had instructed and levered himself into the hot water. With dawn he would surely need to swallow his mistake and face the consequences of not only waking up in Hawke’s home, but also that of Justice’s anguish.

***

Hawke was curled up in her armchair by the fireplace and turning the page of her book when she heard the unsure knock at her door. She looked up at the door with a beam. “You can come in,” she calls.

The light of the fire casts a warm tint across his face as Anders steps into the room wrapped in his beloved bottlebrush-coloured coat. The quilted fabric is stained with blood and dirt from long battles and sleepless nights, but suffices as an excellent blanket to conserve his heat from the cold journey between the washroom and Hawke’s quarters. Hawke notices the slouch in his shoulders and the lethargy evident in his expression as he blinks. Strands of his ash blond hair stick to his cheeks and forehead, wet from the bath. She admits soundlessly to herself that the sight before her is most alluring.

“It appears my furry friend has forfeit his side of the bed, most likely to bunk with Sandal,” Hawke yawns, closing her book and returning it on the shelf above the hearth with her other selection of journals and tales.

“Are you insinuating I am to share your bed?” the washed man smirks in tired teasing, “If I had’ve known you’d go to such lengths to bed me you simply could’ve said so, sweetheart.”

Hawke’s expression screws up into a scowl. “I… have little interest in sleeping with anyone in such context. Even you I’m afraid, for all your charm” she admits, assuming her genuine point will be taken as humour, “We are adults. I think we can sleep under the same duvet without too many straying hands.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Anders blurts out, “You-, I- I don’t want overbear.”

“I don’t want you to be alone right now, Anders,” she sighs, “you’re anxious and exhausted. The least I can offer you is my home for a night.”

He turns his face to the ground. A frown nags at his mouth as Hawke comes over to give him a reassuring touch. The faint scent of lavender seeps from his clammy skin. 

“You will always be welcome here,” Hawke continues, her fingers placed on his arm in supple warmth. She watches his brows weave together. She wonders if he’s ever been told this before. She decides by his hesitation that he has; and there is stinging regret for her words from both parties.

***

Hawke awoke slowly after the sun had risen that morning. Her sleep was deep and restful, and left her mind hazy as the muffled light outside streaked between her curtains. An arm under her pillow; she lifted her hand that was tucked under her chin and pinched at her brow; her muscles cringing at the soft glow of day.

The fire had long since died down, but under her covers Hawke was especially warm even against the crisp air outside them.

It took a moment for her to realise that there was a balmy form huddled up against her back and a lithe arm wrapped about her. She held her eyes closed, wondering if it was still her mind in dreams, but when she opened them again he was still there. Hawke wondered at what point in the night they’d sought each other’s warmth.

Her nerves began to tingle intensely. She didn’t know what to do, how to feel. Anders was in her bed, nestled up to her nonetheless, and still very much asleep. This was a recipe for disaster, she acknowledged, but Hawke knew professionalism and with that understood why she should not- _could not_ put her feelings before his wishes. 

It was clear that he had qualms with the Spirit sharing his mortal form, and that it very much ruled many aspects of his life. Justice seemed far beyond earthly concerns. But still, the Spirit’s host was but a tangible being.

What Anders said and what he did conveyed two very different things. It was clear the words from his mouth were that of Justice, but the words of his form were that of his own. However Hawke could not fault him.

She took his limp hand and pulled him closer. She did not flinch away as she felt stubble brush against the base of her neck and hot sluggish breath huff on her back. Hawke relished in what she had in this moment and stared endlessly at the wall. She decides she will tell him of her affections when she finds adequate language to communicate them, even if she understands she may not receive. It cannot go unsaid forever.


End file.
